Robert Reed - Starbuck.pdf - Robert Reed - margozap

Starbuck by Robert Reed

A sharp-eyed reader noted recently that Mr. Reed passed a milestone earlier this year when he

published his fiftieth story in F&SF. Story #53 is a good one for citing statistics, as baseball

stories are always a good excuse for reveling in stats. Perhaps F&SF should launch its own series

of player trading cards? If we do, you'll see that Robert Reed bats right, throws right, has an

exceptional on-base percentage and his speed on the keyboard is almost unrivaled. And the fun

fact is that Mr. Reed is Nebraska's leading science fiction writer. (Readers are encouraged to read

this story while chewing a flat, cardboard-like piece of bright pink gum.)

* * * *

His hard stuff had gone a little soft and his breaking stuff was staying up in the zone now, and what had

been a crisply pitched game for the first eight innings was slowing down by the breath. By the heartbeat.

Starbuck walked off the mound and slapped his glove against a thigh, and he wiped his wet forehead

with a wet sleeve, then he tucked the glove under an arm while he worked at the new ball with both bare

hands, trying to coax life into fingers that insisted on feeling hot needles whenever they touched the world.

Jeez, his right hand was a mess, particularly on the blistered middle finger. But he barely noticed that

pain, what with the ache of his shoulder and the burning inside what had started the game as a strong

sound elbow. Finally, grudgingly, he scaled the mound again and looked at the enemy batter--a skinny

little center fielder who could smack a pitched ball in any of a thousand directions--and watched the

taped fingers of his catcher, ten layers of code laid over the signal so that the runner standing on second

didn't get wind ... crap, what pitch did the guy want...? Starbuck just shook him off, forcing him to try

again. And again, the fingers were talking gibberish. So what could a pitcher do but wave his glove

overhead, screaming, "Time out,"to the umpire?

The bloodless machine lifted its arms, and a game barely moving suddenly ground to a halt.

Beyond the glare of the lights were more lights, and there were faces and things that would never look

like faces, all attached to voices possessing a perfect clarity, and even if a man's ears could somehow

ignore what was being shouted at him, there were also the obvious thoughts that no sentient mind could

evade--tension and considerable hope, plus a growing, well-deserved impatience.

"Sit him down,"said a multitude, voices full of pity and malice.

"No, leave him in,"said a smaller multitude, spirits buoyed by the suddenly rich prospects for their own

team.

The catcher was a meaty-faced man with garlic on the breath and nearly two decades of experience. He

walked like an old catcher, knees complaining. But he had a boy's smile and an unexpected kindness in a

voice that was softer than one might expect from that face and that build. "He's going to yank you,"the

catcher told Starbuck. "You want him to?"

"No."

"Cosgrove's ready."

Starbuck snapped off a few brutal curses. "Cosgrove cost me my last two games. You think I should let

him come out here--?"

"Well then,"his catcher interrupted. Then he put his fat glove around his mouth, choking off the garlic stink

while asking, "What's your best pitch left?"

"Fastball."

"Well then."With a glance back over his shoulder, the catcher said, "Give him a breaking ball. Put it

outside. Can you?"

"Probably."

"After that, start shaking me off."

"Okay."

"And go high with your best fastball. The little shit's going to swing through, and you'll get your first out."

Except it didn't happen that way. The breaking pitch pushed the count to full, but Starbuck didn't get his

fastball low enough to entice. Instead, the batter watched it buzz past his eyes, and he took first base at a

gallop, and now the winning run was on and there were still three outs to earn.

The manager called time.

Where was the stupid resin bag? Starbuck found it hiding behind the mound, and he contented himself for

a few moments by banging the bag against his palms and tossing it down before giving it a few good

kicks. White dust hung in the air. The manager was crossing the infield, already taking a measure of his

pitcher. Starbuck gave him a stare and jutting lower jaw. "I don't want you to pull me,"he said with his

body, his face. And then he gave the hapless resin bag one more hard kick.

The catcher came out with the manager. Catchers always did that, since they were supposed to be the

generals out on the diamond. But there was also a history between Starbuck and this manager, and if you

knew enough--and the fans always knew more than enough--you realized the catcher was standing

halfway between the men for a reason. These two prideful souls had already suffered more than one

flare-up this season. It was smart baseball to have a beefy body at the ready, in case this little meeting on

the mound turned into another donnybrook.

The manager began by asking, "What should I do?"

"Don't use Cosgrove,"warned Starbuck.

"No?"

"I'll get three outs."

"Tonight?"

"Not with you standing here. But yeah, I will."

The manager nodded, as if he sincerely believed that promise. Then with a strong quiet voice, he said,

"Show me your arm."

Starbuck surrendered his right arm into the waiting hands.

The manager was ancient by most measures. The story was that he had played parts of three seasons in

the Bigs, but he was too small for the game. So like a lot of idiots in those days, he juiced himself with

designer steroids and synthetic growth hormones and enough Ritalin to keep an entire city focused. But

the juice could do only so much good and quite a lot of bad. He was finished playing before he was

twenty-eight, and after another twenty years of working as a coach in the minor leagues, he started to

die. Organs failed. Enzymes went wacky. And weird cancers sprang up in all the embarrassing places.

Before he was fifty, the old man had been gutted like a brook trout and filled up with new organs either

grown in tanks or built from plastic, all back when that kind of work seemed exceptionally modern. But

he was still stuck in the minor leagues, working as a batting coach or a scout or sometimes tucked into

the front office. It wasn't until he was seventy-two that his career genuinely took off.

In most versions of the story, he was jumping a hooker in Terra Haute, and a pretty important blood

vessel in his brain broke. Over the next three days, he died twenty times. Doctors had to do a lot of

inspired work just to keep his corpse breathing. How they saved as much of his brain as they did,

nobody knew. But what they saved was what was best, and what they built after that more than replaced

what he had lost. Once the old guy learned to walk again, and talk, and take care of himself in the

bathroom, he went back to managing, and nobody knew how it happened, but the man's new brain had

acquired an eerie capacity to absorb a whole lot of factors before gut-feelings took over and made the

right call.

"I should pull you,"the manager remarked, those strong ageless hands letting go of Starbuck's arm, both

men watching it drop, limp and tired. "I really want to drag you out of this game."

His pitcher said nothing.

"But you see Cosgrove standing over there? Glove under his arm?"The manager got a new face before

the season. He looked maybe fifty, or at least how fifty used to look. Gray-haired and sun-worn,

respectable and wise. He was in control of the world, or so his appearance said. "But the thing is--"he

began.

"What?"Starbuck blurted.

"My closer just felt something snap in his shoulder. He isn't telling me, but I'm seeing the readout from the

autodoc."Medical telemetry was still legal as long as you weren't actually standing on the playing field.

"Cosgrove might think otherwise, but I don't believe he could put the ball over the plate."

The manager's eyes were glass and things fancier than glass, and when they stared, it felt as if knives

were burrowing into your flesh.

"On the other hand, you can still put the ball over the plate,"he admitted. "On occasion."

The umpire had rolled out, ready to warn the three of them to break up their little meeting.

"So you're my best hope,"the manager said to Starbuck. And on that wilted note of optimism, he turned

and walked back toward the dugout.

"Fastballs,"the catcher blurted, talking through his glove.

Starbuck gave a little nod.

"And keep them down. All right, kid?"

* * * *

The game had never been larger, at least in terms of crowds and interest and money, as well as the sheer

intelligence that was focused on the activities of balls and bats and the boys who played it. But also the

game had never been so inconsequential. Tens of millions of fans adored it, yet today the world's citizens

numbered in excess of one hundred billion. Truth was, soccer still ruled, with basketball and the UNFL

galloping far behind. And while measuring relative values was difficult, baseball was probably only the

eighth or ninth most important sport. Excluding golf, of course, which was still nothing but a good walk

ruined.

Every sport had its core fans, and among that hardened group were those who liked nothing more than to

stand beside their heroes, basking in the fame while they tried to sink their pernicious roots into the

players' lives.

Let them get close, and the fans would suck you dry.

Love them, and they would happily ruin your career and good name, and then they'd take home your

husk and your bad name as trophies.

That was Starbuck's working premise. Everyone learned which smiles meant trouble and which of the

kind words were simply too kind. And sure, every young player was flattered when a pretty creature

offered herself and maybe her sister too. What man wouldn't want the adoration and easy sex? But there

were rules for players just as there were rules for the world at large, and they were not the same rules,

and not knowing the difference was the same as not being able to lay off sliders thrown out of the

zone--it kept you in the minors, or it got you kicked out of baseball entirely.

"I love this game,"a fan once remarked to Starbuck. "I adore its history and intelligence, and its

unpredictability even to the most gifted AI modelers."Then with a glass-eyed wink, the mechanical

creature added, "But what I like better than anything is the long, honorable tradition of cheating."

Walk away, Starbuck told himself.

But he didn't. He couldn't. It was just the two of them sharing a long elevator ride. The machine was a

hotel maid--a neat-freak AI riding inside a clean gray carbon chassis--and like a lot of entities with

brainpower in excess of its needs, it invested its free thoughts in the memorization of statistics and the

constant replaying of old World Series.

"Cheating,"the machine repeated.

Starbuck didn't respond.

"And when I say that word,"his companion continued, "I don't mean questionable actions taken by the

downtrodden players."

That won a grunted, "Huh?"

"I am referring to the owners,"said the maid. "What they have done and are doing and will continue to do

with your good game proves that they are cheats, and it makes them into criminals."

That won a sideways glance at his companion, plus a soft, half-interested, "Is that so?"

"Bob Gibson."

The name meant something. It struck a chord with Starbuck. But he had never been the best student,

particularly when it came to historical curiosities from more than a century ago. Pretending to recognize

the name and its deep significance, he nodded, muttering to the ceiling, "Yeah, what about him?"

"One of the finest seasons for any pitcher in history,"the machine continued. "It was 1968--"

"Sure."

"And do you know what his earned run average was?"

"Not offhand."

"One point one two."

Machines weren't wrong too often, but it could happen. Starbuck was polite enough not to doubt that

ridiculously low number openly, and he made a mental note to look up Gibson's career totals when he

finally got back to his hotel room.

"The pitcher compiled a record of twenty-two and nine, giving up barely more than a single run for every

nine innings of work, and because of his utter domination, the mound was lowered next year by a full

third."

A visceral anger blossomed in Starbuck.

"The owners want to see offensive numbers,"the machine said. And with that, their elevator stopped on a

random floor and opened its doors, exposing an empty hallway.

The pause wasn't an accident, Starbuck sensed.

"They want home runs,"his companion continued. "They want to see base runners. They believe that there

will always be another two or three million eyes that will watch a debased, cheat-enhanced game, while

only a few hundred thousand traditional fans will lose interest and drift away."Peculiar as it seemed, a

machine was saying, "The owners care only about numbers."Speaking with genuine disgust, it claimed,

"For money and the bodies jammed into the stadiums, and for all those paying Web-presences that

pretend to sit in the stands, the damned owners will mangle the oldest rules. By any means, at any time."

Because someone needed to say it, Starbuck mentioned, "They have that right. After all, these are their

teams."

"But do they own the game itself?"

The question caught him unprepared.

"Ali the Dervish,"said the machine.

This one Starbuck knew and knew well. Two generations ago, Ali was the dominating pitcher for six or

seven seasons. He was a Sudanese-born fellow nearly seven feet tall, with hands big enough to hold

three balls at once and a delivery designed by genetics as well as a god who loves good pitching.

Starbuck had studied the old digitals. From the mound, Ali would start to turn and twist, gathering

momentum into some type of hidden flywheel set inside his long, surprisingly powerful legs. Then came

the rush forward, and a ball that looked like a starved moth was shot from a cannon, and if it was his

fastball, the hapless batter had no time to react. If it was the slider, it broke as he swung, making him

look foolish. And if it was the change-up--a wondrously treacherous pitch when lumped on top of Ali's

other talents--the batter would finish his swing long before the ball hit the catcher's mitt, his poor body

screwing itself around as if trying to bring the bat back again, attempting a second swing during the same

tortuous motion.

Ten or twenty times a year, Ali put batters on the disabled list, pulled groins and ravaged backs being the

usual culprits.

Just thinking of the carnage made Starbuck laugh.

"Because of Ali, the owners dropped your mound another two inches,"the machine reminded him. "And

then just to make sure that pitchers learned their lesson, they made the balls a little larger and smoother,

and by most measures, a little less likely to break when they were thrown."

Robert Reed - Starbuck.pdf

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